


Step, Step

by Grigiocuore



Category: Galavant (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gareth To The Rescue, M/M, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Richard Makes No Sense, Stoned King, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:31:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grigiocuore/pseuds/Grigiocuore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard has managed to fall from a horse. Gareth is falling in totally different ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Step, Step

After years of dutiful training, Gareth had reduced his moods to mostly two options. Angry, and not angry. 

There were shades there, but not many. And then was the third option, that was Richard-angry. 

That morning the King had announced to the whole court that he would fancy a good hunt to honor his Eastern guests, and that he himself would lead it, and hearing it Gareth had nearly snapped the sword’s handle with his grip. Richard had gone hunting not two times in a lifetime, all before fourteen. He had wept realizing rabbit pies actually came from rabbits. He barely knew how not to fall from the horse. But he was spoiled, and stubborn. So Gareth had just clenched his teeth hard enough to make them snap and kept saddling the horse. It wouldn’t end well. He knew it in the guts. 

He was not disappointed. 

-So, what’s up? I heard King Dick has yet to come back. Fell from the horse or something.- 

-Are you serious? He managed to get himself killed even before actual conjures.- 

-Well, if so I wouldn’t sob. I’d just hope there would be more wolves around.- 

The flock burst in laughs, watching the guards hopping and storming around the trees. Gareth’s stomach churned further. Courtesan Arthur’s dainty boots were suddenly swept off the ground. 

-You have no right to talk. No right.- 

He was in the woods before the twerp could properly piss himself. 

That had happened when the sun was still bright of morning, and since then Gareth had had plenty of time to get himself hoarse calling the idiot around. He had had a lot of time to think too. It was a consequence of woods: trees, shadows, shrieks, nothing human for miles around and you cling to your own human things. Like things involving long nights, and women that were always too full or too skinny, and thoughts during those long nights. 

He was no poet-ish dumbo however. No, no Gareth, let’s think about tough things. Butch things. The axes, that’s it. They need sharpening, a hand of oilcloth. That was a good topic. Stay on it. Yeah. Sure. 

The fact was Richard wasn’t stupid. No, he wasn’t stupid. He was dumb, but that was a totally different thing from stupid. He didn’t understand people, and therefore he didn’t understand how to make them love or fear him. Gareth too didn’t understand people, but by choice and with no particular distress; that idiot instead went around like a batted pup, with anyone. With _Gareth_. It drove him made. How could he not get why he didn’t touch him anymore? 

Axes. Oilcloth. 

But after all, he just couldn’t do things normal. During boyhood he had gone from butter-ball to scarecrow with no middle points. Now he wasn’t a butter-ball anymore. Now he was lean, bony, long legs wrapped in velvet, pink thin lips. Gods, they moved so much, those lips, biting and smiling and talking. Those hips too. Sometimes he’d just like to grab him and, and. 

Something squashed under his boot. Oh, damn. A deer shit. A freakin’ deer shit. Gareth grunted loudly and shoved a foot against a birch, hard enough to shake the whole trunk. Robins chirped in outrage over his head. Stupid birds, stupid wood. 

-My liege! Do you hear me?- 

-Gare-bear? Is it you?- 

The answer was so cheery Gareth’s head snapped upward. He checked on the right, left. The voice came from behind a muddy slope, not two hundred feet from him. Gareth stumped up it with his senses stretched. There was a creek, flowing down to the West. Has he fallen in it? 

–My liege? Are you all right?- 

No reply. Gareth clasped his teeth, pushed on a stone. He flew past the line of birches and ran down again and plunged through a bunch of bushes, and here he was. His idiot king was sitting under a tree, half- slumped against the trunk, legs sprawled and hair caked with mud and dead leaves. A whole sleeve had been torn down from its stitches. He smiled at him like he currently wasn’t a sort of fancy scarecrow. 

-Gareth! I’m so happy you’re here.- 

Gareth didn’t answer. He crouched by him, checking in silence, assessing damages. The scratches were light, ribs at their place, arms right. He patted Richard's chin, him giggling madly under his touch. 

-Are you hurt?- 

-Nah, ‘don’t think so.- And with that Richard dropped on his chest, nearly smashing both their noses in the process. Gareth tore him off himself like the king was a burning salamander. 

-Oh, sorry sorry Gare-bear. No hugs, I know, no nooo hugs.- 

He giggled again, swinging back and forth. His ball-blue eyes were even more ball-like than usual. Gareth 

frowned. 

-Did you hit your head?- 

\- ‘Dunno. I fell from the, the thing, however. The big animal, with those funny toes, you know.- 

-The _horse_?- 

-Yeah. Exactly, the horse.- 

Geez, those eyes were really huge. Gareth frowned harder and gave a first real glance at his surroundings. Moss, grass, a spot of large purple flowers by the water, nothing to hit your head against. Gareth looked a second time at the flowers. Memory froze him. 

Oh no. _Madblue_. Oh no no no. He took in the giggles, the eyes, the horse. Crap. An intoxicated Richard. He couldn’t make it. He let out a long growl of defeat. 

Meanwhile a lazy hand was brushing his head. 

-Your head is so huge, Gare-bear. But it’s cute. And polished. Do you polish it?- 

-Holy Hells. Listen, 'think you could walk?- 

-Walk? You mean with _feet_?- 

Gareth sighed. 

-All right. I got it. Come on. Mount.- 

-Where?- 

-On my back, my king. Come on.- 

-But you…- 

- _Come_ _on._ \- 

The king gave him a wide-eyed look. The Hells with it. Gareth reached out, seized his arms and draped them around his neck, clasping his knees under elbows, and got up in a single powerful thrust. Richard giggled madly. 

-Eh eh eh, like a bear. I’m riding a bear.- He slapped his boot-heels around, digging deep in Gareth’s side. 

He grunted a curse. 

-Listen, I’m moving. Stay put up there. Put, understood?- 

-All right, Gare-bear. You'll forget I'm here.- 

-I really doubt it.- 

They kept trudging forward, up a turn, past the bushes. The king wasn't heavy, the steps found a rhythm. He didn't talk a lot. It felt actually better than it should. Richard began to hum, roughing out a motif. 

-Don’t sing.- 

-Why? It’s such a beautiful day, we’re having a great time.- 

-Don’t sing or I drop you here.- 

-Oh oh, you wouldn’t ever do such a thing. We both knew it.- 

And then he plunged his face in Gareth’s neck, suddenly and treacherously. He nuzzled behind his ear like a damn cat. The beard was soft like cotton locks, rubbing gently, delicate bones underneath. Gareth could feel him breathing along his skin. Oh Hells bloody bloody Hells. He gulped down a vastly different groan. 

-Mh. You’re comfy Gare, you know?- 

Richard moaned a bit, pinning himself closer. His heart was fluttering against Gareth’s back. He smelled of warmth and sweat. Gare’s fingers tingled. It’d be so easy to slip them further up, further down. Or to turn, seize him, _eat_ him. Gareth’s crotch gave another twitch. Axes, axes, think about the axes. Fuck, how could he not get it? 

-Are you all right?- 

- _Yes._ _I am._ \- 

-You sure?- 

- _Yeah_.- 

-Oh. If you say so. My big comfy bear. Do you remember when we played it, as kids? You swept me up and told me to hold the sword high over us. Do you remember, Gareth?- 

-Yes. I do.- 

-Ah, it was funny, so funny. I always felt like I was on top of the world when you carried me around like this. We chased all the castle mice. I laughed so hard. Wasn’t it funny, Gare?- 

-Sure.- Gareth lied. Didn’t lie. 

-Sure.- 

He fell silent. Gareth swallowed for the forth time. The idiot’s voice changed. 

-I’m sorry, Gare-bear. You told me hunting was not a good idea, but I did it anyway. And I made everything going wrong. I got lost in my own woods. I’m a mess.- 

-You’re stoned. It’s different.- 

-You know what I mean.- 

Gareth didn’t answer for some moments. He was still horny as Hells. He sighed. 

_How could he not get it?_ __

-You’re a damn softie. But you are my king. I’m your guardsman. I think we both could have gotten way worse things.- 

-Yeah. Yeah, I think it too.- 

He felt him smiling against his head. He smiled too. Gareth hobbled on across the trees, pants still stretching, light fading, step, step. He would bring the idiot back to the castle, drag him to his bed chamber and hope he’d be tired enough to collapse on the bed. He’d find a suitable whore, skinny and blue-eyed, and have another long night, and tomorrow he’d remember the kitchen to bring the King a glass of warm milk, some peaches too if they’re already full enough, and the idiot would be safe and sound and not lost in some goddamn wood. Then someday things would change. Someday he’d chop his head off for being so dastardly _himself_ all the time, and then pin him against a wall and fuck, he’d finally know. But not now. No, not now. 

Step, step. 

The arms around his neck got tighter. The King took a deep breath. 

-Me and my bear…- 

_-Don’t_ _sing.-_

**Author's Note:**

> Another Gareth/Richard fic, since they're so sweet and disfunctional. Thanks so much for your support. Hope ya liked it.  
> P.S.: I so sympathize with Gareth. Really.


End file.
